Exodus, Part III: My Jaws Phobia

The ocean is evil. Or so I thought. For twenty-five years.

Having been raised in Ohio, all I knew about the ocean was based specifically on Jaws and Discovery Channel’s Shark Week. Roy Scheider’s “You’re gonna need a bigger boat” was enough to make me say uh-uh—that body of water is baaaad news—and I existed happily in my land-locked existence for a quarter of a century. I realize the ocean is pretty. It makes nice noises. And yes, even I wanted to run naked down the beach after watching the music video for Chris Issak’s “Wicked Game.” But there was no way I was getting in the water.

Then, I moved to Charleston, SC, and when I was first offered the job down here, I had no idea Charleston was on the ocean. It is. I mean, it’s ON the ocean. It could very well be the next sinking city, like Venice. We’re built below the flood plain, and when it rains, the tide breaks on the stoop of the Griffon Pub on Vendue Street. So there I was, a chick with a phobia of dark water, and I was moving to a place filled with the stuff. I did seek out the ocean on my first day here. I met my prospective coworkers. I ate a burger at Poe’s Tavern. Then, I said, “Point me to the water!” As if I couldn’t smell it. When you’re near the beach in Charleston, salt crystals practically plug your nose. That first day, I walked beside the sea. I touched my toe in the white foam, and I enjoyed the breeze and the mansions on Sullivan’s Island. But I didn’t go swimming.

I did go swimming at an employee party. We were out in Charleston harbor on a speed boat, and everyone just kind of jumped in the water. Seriously, they just jumped in, as if a huge great white shark wasn’t about to bite off their toes. They waved up at me, saying things like “Come in”… “The water’s fine.” I thought about it. I looked at my coworkers, and I decided I could out-swim at least a couple of them. Sharks go after the slowest and weakest, right? So I jumped in, and I rolled into a little ball. I’ve seen the movies, okay? I didn’t want to lose one of my legs. I got out about two minutes later, and I called my dad when I got home. I told my father what I’d done, and he said, “What’s WRONG with you? Are you INSANE?” This coming from a man who would later…well, I’m getting to that.

Since that first salty tumble, I’ve become a water baby. If the waves are rockin,’ I’m the first one in. In the old days, I used to wade in up to my knees, and that was only if there were other people swimming farther out. (Again, Jaws would get them first, right?) Now, I’m addicted to body-surfing. I know exactly when to jump to get the best ride in, and I know how to avoid being smashed into the beach at the end. I’ve gone sailing, and yes, I’ve done graceful swan dives into choppy surf from the bow of a boat. I have even gone swimming at night. After seeing a show at the Windjammer on Isle of Palms, my gal pals and me stripped down to nothing—at 2 o’clock in the morning—and wallowed in the pitch-blackness of the sea. Yes, father, your daughter is insane.

That being said, I haven’t told you the worst part. I told you I was getting to it; here it is. When my parents were visiting last summer, Dad and me were walking down the beach. Something moved to our left, and we both paused long enough to see a baby SHARK struggling in the tide. The baby SHARK got loose and shot off down the beach. We looked at each other. This was an important moment. Would we run away back to Ohio, screaming and waving our hands in the air, or would we…go swimming? My father and I went swimming. When we got out, he turned to me. “Well, at least we didn’t lose a leg,” he said, and I realized, screw the sharks. Screw Jaws, and screw Shark Week. The ocean was no longer evil. The ocean was, in fact, one of my favorite places to be.

Now, I’m leaving it. I’m leaving the ocean for desert, and it’s funny because this is what my friends seem most concerned about. Not about me moving to a new place where I don’t know anyone. Not about me finding work or a LIFE PURPOSE. No, they just ask, “What about the ocean?” I tell them it’s not going anywhere. Oh, and did I mention San Diego is a seventy-buck plane ride from Phoenix?

Fran Hawk’s Ten Tips Would Make Bradbury Proud

Groucho Marx once said, “Outside of a dog, a man’s best friend is a book. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.” The recently released Ten Tips for Raising Readers, by retired librarian and Charleston columnist Fran Hawk, feels a lot like this quote. Not the part about being inside of a dog, but the tone—comedic and yet practical, with worthy wisdom on the side.

I picked up this book because I know Hawk personally. I know she’s got a bunch of grandkids, and she’s the children’s book columnist for the Charleston Post and Courier. I know she has a Master’s Degree in Library Science, and I know she was an inspirational—and sometimes controversial— librarian who took what she’d learned with her own children and equated it to creative child psychology in the workplace. (Ex. Danny buried all the toys in the sandbox today? It’s going to be a bad day for Danny.) These professional and personal encounters inspired Hawk to encourage reading in children and adults alike, and now, thanks to Ten Tips for Raising Readers, I can be inspired, too.

The format is simple. Each chapter starts with a “Tip.” Then, building upon her own experience as librarian, columnist, mother, and grandmother, Hawk expands upon her tip. Using the comedy of Groucho and the wisdom of Atticus Finch, she makes her tips easy and accessible to parents and educators, dealing with children from the terrible twos to the terrible teens. A “Be Your Own Librarian” section at the end of each chapter gives you the practical steps to make the tip really happen, and finally, Hawk lists a couple of her favorite titles in age-specific segments. Throughout, there is an ever-present comic touch. This is not an academic theses; this is an entertaining play-by-play from a parent/librarian who has been there, fighting on the front lines for literacy.

Books from my childhood that I STILL carry around.

Do I sound over-dramatic? Well, I’m not. Listen to this: “I’ve met children who arrived for 4-year-old kindergarten completely mystified by how to open a book, much less what was inside” (TTRR, pg. 12). If this doesn’t terrify you, I’m sending Mickey Rourke to your house for dinner, because obviously, NOTHING terrifies you. Hawk wants you to know—when kids don’t read, they miss out. Honestly, I don’t really understand kids. I don’t get along with kids. And yet, for the past four years of my life, what have I done? I’ve publicized children’s books and the authors who write them. Why do I do this? Because like Mrs. Hawk, I believe in what children’s books accomplish. I thoroughly, passionately believe that children need to be raised reading. I believe kids who read will end up smarter, more socially adept, and more successful, and I will fight ‘til I’m broken and bleeding to keep kids reading. So will Fran Hawk.

Hawk also included this quote in Ten Tips for Raising Readers, from Caldecott winner Gail E. Haley: “Children who are not spoken to by live and responsive adults will not learn to speak properly. Children who are not answered will stop asking questions. They will become incurious. And children who are not told stories and who are not read to will have few reasons for wanting to learn to read.” The truth is, this whole thing begins with us—the adults. We are in charge of successfully raising little readers, and Hawk’s call to action in TTRR will stir you to fight against a stupid, ignorant, Fahrenheit 451 future. And all it takes to begin? One. Single. Book.

Read Ten Tips for Raising Readers. It’ll make Ray Bradbury happy, and I’ll sleep better at night.

For more about Fran Hawk: http://www.franhawk.webs.com/.  

For ordering info:  http://www.thereadingwarehouse.com/book.php?ISBN=9780615290249.

One section of my closet. You should see the rest of the house...

Exodus, Part II: A Charleston Top Ten List

Jake's lilies

Jake hit the road two hours ago. This morning, we packed his car full of stuff. He surprised me with tiger lilies, artfully arranged in an empty Macallan 12 bottle from his birthday. We shared a five minute hug. I cried melted, black mascara on his sweatshirt, and after a couple “I love you’s,” I shoved him out my front door for fear of a total meltdown.

This isn’t the end of the world. He’s just heading to Phoenix to get ready for his new job, to find us a house, and to settle in, before flying back to Charleston in three weeks to pick me up and do the drive west once more. It just felt like the end of the world, because we’ve never been apart for three weeks. It also felt strange, walking around his house this morning, one last time. His house—the place where we built a relationship. Where we spent so many nights making dinner together. So many mornings watching ESPN. So many moments laughing and looking toward a future.

Jake’s house in Charleston is just a place. Charleston, South Carolina, is just a place. However, it’s strange leaving the places we know. Leaving a place is like leaving a person—you have to touch the doorknobs, look out the windows, and hug the garage door, because it will be a long time (or perhaps, forever) before you see that place again. In the spirit of saying farewell to Jake’s house, I now have approximately three weeks to say farewell to Charleston. In homage, I have made the following list: Top Ten Things to do Before I Leave Chucktown.

The most beautiful house on the Charleston Battery

1. DONE: Walk the Battery. I walked the Charleston Battery within four hours of moving here a year and a half ago, and it had a lot to do with my immediate infatuation with the place. Jake requested to do the same once more before heading west. We did it the other day, which is where the pretty pics in this entry come from.

2. DONE: Pralines at River Street Sweets on the Market. Walking down Market Street, you can smell praline. They make ‘em fresh, right in front of you, at River Street Sweets, and they give you samples—warm, sweet, succulent, DECADENT. I dare you to have more than one.

Pralines at River Street Sweets

3. DONE: Oyster shooters at Pearlz, East Bay. I feared oysters until I moved to Charleston. Now, I’m obsessed. The oyster shooters at Pearlz are made with Absolut Peppar, cocktail sauce, fresh ground pepper, and a raw oyster. I will have as many of these as my body is able within the next three weeks.

4. She Crab Soup at Mistral, Market Street. She Crab Soup is a Lowcountry thing, just like New England Clam Chowder is an east coast thing. It’s rich, it’s heavy, it’s terrible for you, and it’s a must-have. Mistral is not only a charming restaurant—it has the best She Crab Soup in town.

5. Burger at Poe’s Tavern, Sullivan’s Island. Poe’s will put anything on a burger, from guacamole, to chili, to egg, to goat cheese. Go get one, medium rare, and have a Corona while you think about the beach, a block down the road.

6. Beach walk at sunrise, Sullivan’s Island. Speaking of beach, I was once scared of the ocean. Now, I know leaving the ocean will be the hardest part about leaving Charleston. I will miss the smell, the sound, and the feel of the waves. It’s gonna be rough turning my back on the sea.

7. Glass of wine at Social, East Bay. I love the smell of Social. I love the lighting. I love the wine list. I have spent many, MANY nights at the Social bar. I have built many memories there. I need just one more.

8. Dollar on the wall at Griffon, Vendue Street. Griffon is a pub, off the beaten path. I’m a regular. Dollar bills cover the walls, ceilings, doorways, and windowpanes. Patrons have hung these dollar bills, after adding their own personal touches. Jake put one up before he left for Phoenix. I already have one on the walls, too—added when a good friend of mine from Ohio came to visit. I need to add another one, saying farewell to this Holy City.

9. Manhattan at Charleston Grill, featuring Quentin Baxter, King Street and Market. I’m a whiskey fan; I’m a jazz fan. Therefore, I just gotta head to Charleston Grill one more time for a Maker’s Mark Manhattan and for Quentin Baxter’s jazz drum.

10. Bar dancing, Market Street Saloon. I like dancing on bars. Got a problem with it?

So. I’ve already completed two of these tasks. More to follow, as the Exodus continues. Wish me luck. Now, it’s just me. I will be Jake-less for the next three weeks as the adventure rolls on.

Mill Street Hotel. Chucktown.

Pecha Kucha 5 inspires our Kingdom by the Sea

Pecha Kucha Charleston has become a not-so-secret society that everyone wants to join. Case in point was the sold out PK5 event Thursday evening at its biggest venue yet, the Hippodrome Theatre. The gathering featured artists of the tangible and intangible, each living by the mantra, “Don’t fight it. If you’re supposed to be an artist, you’re going to be an artist.”

Crowds stood in a long line to buy beer before things got started, chatting it up with friends and strangers at volumes way above a pleasant hum. Enthusiasm mounted when the audience stole a peek at the PK5 screen. Presenters stood up front, dwarfed by the bigger-than-big IMAX screen. The audience watched with rapt attention — eating their concession snacks and drinking cold beer out of buckets.

In general, it felt like the presenters didn’t know where to look. A couple of them faced the audience; most turned halfway to the screen. One presenter I wouldn’t recognize in a lineup, because she never faced the audience. And Nathan Durfee paced back and forth, gesturing wildly to his audience and his slides. Once Skirt! magazine’s Nikki Hardin dropped the f-bomb, cussing became open game. Did the audience mind? No. The scrolling Twitter updates on the right side of the screen championed her quotation, and I heard many attendees muttering in the lobby, “Can you believe she said that?” followed by laughter and nods of admiration.

Pecha Kucha is an event where we are all “free to be me.” Nikki Hardin proved it with her spattering of creative inspiration (“Sometimes, you gotta hang up the mental fuck-it tape”). MC Michael Gray used off-color, self deprecating humor, and for a moment, we thought we’d fallen into Comedy Fest. Painter Nathan Durfee described his “process,” even if it is sometimes just him, alone in a studio, watching paint dry. And tattoo artist Jason Eisenberg summed it all up: We have one life and one shot. Art can be destructive. It can be addictive. But no matter what, it cannot be fought off. An artist is an artist, and again, Pecha Kucha reminded us why we love our “Kingdom by the Sea.”

(Originally published in the Charleston City Paper. For more about Pecha Kucha, check out http://www.PechaKuchaCharleston.com.)

Exodus, Part I: Moving to Arizona

Chucktown

There’s an old adage: “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” Two years ago, I never planned to get a job in Charleston, SC. I didn’t plan to eventually hate/quit that job. I did not plan to meet a damn good lookin’ man one random Friday at Burn’s Alley. And I didn’t plan that six months later, I would move to Phoenix, Arizona.

Did you get all that? In one month, I am moving to Phoenix, AZ, with the man I love.

Since May of 2008, I have lived and breathed Charleston. I knew I loved the city as soon as I set foot on Rainbow Row. I fell in love with the seafood, the bars, the jazz, and the huge houses with huge porches. I realized, the more time I spent wandering along the beaches of Sullivan’s Island and the historic streets off East Bay and Broad, that I could become a lifer—a northerner who, like many before had “found Heaven” in the Lowcountry, destined to grow old and one day sip warm Grand Marnier on a decrepit porch swing in the Battery.

But who would be with me?

I’ve always joked about growing old with my girl friends—saying we’d be the cougars hitting on young boat owners at Red’s on Shem Creek or maybe even the college guys at AC’s on King. We’ll stick together forever and be sexy, single bitches well into our sixties. We like making these jokes, because in general, the men we have met don’t make us happy. I’ve been of the opinion that it’s not good to meet guys in bars. It’s not good to give out your number to the drunk guy playing pool and actually expecting him to call and offer anything other than cheap liquor and perhaps, an ill-advised sleepover.

Then, I met Jake. At a bar called Burn’s Alley. Playing pool. He liked the way I could sing, and I liked that he could make me laugh. We stayed at the bar until close. Then, we went to Waffle House. Then, we talked music over his laptop, with his roommate’s annoying ankle-biter barking and licking my toes. Then, he got my number, and he didn’t call for more bar-hopping and cheap breakfast at 3 AM. He called for a date. Remember? Those things where you get dressed up and go out to dinner and get to know each other? An actual date. And he made me happy; he still does every day.

Six months after that first date, I’m looking out the window of my apartment in Mt. Pleasant, SC. The sky is blue. It’s a little chilly for this late in January, and the grass is showing no sign of spring green. When I close my eyes, I can already see the red desert. I can already see cactuses in between the palm trees. I can see me and Jake.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m not there yet. This is only Exodus, Part I.

Me, Charleston Harbor, 2009

The Man Upstairs Wants You to See This Movie

Movies make the future look bad. People will be bad. The earth will be bad. We will all be unhappy, hopeless, skinny people with rotting teeth (or fangs, according to Daybreakers), waiting for the end. The Book of Eli is no different. It paints a picture of a post-war, pre-apocalyptic world in which we have burned a hole in the sky. The majority of humanity was wiped out in the war. The leftover remnants of humanity are featured in this film, ranging from those blinded by the sun (when the sky opened up), to those who physically shake, surviving on the rotting flesh of other dead humans. There is very little water. There is very little food. It is a fight for survival—a survival of gray, black, and brown hues, where shampoo is a serious, serious luxury item.

Into this world walks Eli (Denzel Washington), who has been walking the earth for thirty years, carrying a mysterious book with a cross on the cover, following the path the Lord has provided. Through this Everyman (who can kick some serious ass, might I add), we learn more about this bad world. We learn that during the war, Bibles were burnt. Eli found the last Bible, and he is one of the only remnants of Christianity on earth. The other remnant is Gary Oldman—the rich representation of a pre-apocalyptic mayor—who wants to take the Bible from Eli for evil, not good. Oldman is always a dude you love to hate, and the director reminds you, via the first fifteen words from his mouth. Case in point: any man who uses the “P” word in reference to female anatomy (if you don’t know, don’t ask) is a bad dude. Therefore, Oldman’s character equals bad dude.

The Book of Eli was a great movie. There were some mutterings in the audience regarding really long moments of silence, but I found the long pauses and wide-angle shots effective. This visual representation of an empty, wasted world perpetuated the feeling of loneliness and hopelessness, already developed via character communication. I liked the subdued colors. The human-eaters were creepy, and you really, really liked watching Eli slash them into bits with his machete. (Seriously, the fight scenes are clutch. Denzel is still kickin’ ass, regardless of the gray hairs in his beard.) All the actors were good. Denzel and Oldman are sure things, but even Mila Kunis (yeah, I kept hearing Meg from Family Guy) was emotive and charming. When Denzel says grace before dinner, her confused, wide eyes were so informative of this uninformed, faithless space, and perhaps, it was the poignancy of scenes like this that made me so damn teary at the end.

I knew The Book of Eli was going to be “religious,” and I know Denzel Washington is a dedicated Christian. I knew there was going to be a “message,” but I did not expect the breadth and depth of this message. I am a Christian. I go to church. I believe in a divine plan, and I know God has a path set for me to follow. And yet, I often take all this knowledge for granted. The Book of Eli begs the question, what if you’d never heard about Christ? What if you just didn’t know? Had no reason to be “good” in a “bad” world? Had no hope in salvation and an afterlife? Would you have a reason to continue on? Additionally, would you have a reason to be a good person? Many of the people in The Book of Eli did not. They could kill, rape, and pillage with no consequences. They had no path to follow, beyond the abandoned highways and dry, dead deserts. Eli had a path. He had been travelling his path for thirty years, following the words of God that had once told him to “Go west.” Dedication. Faith. Blind belief in a benevolent God. And Eli will be rewarded for this belief, whereas yes, Oldman will suffer his own consequences.

I was crying by the end. I can’t say for sure why I was crying. Yes, the movie is poignant. You’re really rooting for this Eli guy. You want him to “Go west,” even though there are no hints about his eventual destination until the last five minutes of the flick. You want Mila Kunis to understand this prayer stuff. You want the good guys to win, and the bad guys to lose limbs to Gangrene. It was more than that for me, though. By the end, I wanted to start dancing around the theater, saying “Praise Jeeee-zus!” like an old Southern preacher. Because God is not dead. God is very much alive.

I have gone through scary changes in the past few months of my life, and there are many changes happening in the next few weeks. It started simple enough—I jumped ship, career-wise. Easy. I fell in love, and I will soon be following the man I love wherever his job takes us. “Go west?” Perhaps. I hope I have the dedication of Eli. I know I have faith, in theory, but the testing continues. The adventure continues. I don’t suppose my path is as important as Eli’s. I don’t suppose many of our paths are, but his journey is applicable, in the Everyman sense of the word. Keep following the path, because God knows the way. Eli knew this, and it’s movies like The Book of Eli that remind the rest of us.

Dirty Dozen Brass Band celebrates 25 years and the Saints

Mardi Gras came early this year, thanks to a Saints’ NFL playoff victory Saturday afternoon. It’s a good thing, too, because it gave the renowned New Orleans Dirty Dozen Brass Band an excuse to invite young women to dance on stage at the Pour House … as long as they were wearing Saints jerseys.

Saturday night, crowds trickled in from the rain, hiding in the dank corners until the band went onstage. Once the boys hit the mics, it was a rush to the front, as young and old alike boogied and chanted, “Who dat!” over the jubilant sounds of brass, snare, and sax. Several spectators, adorned in Saints black and gold, reveled in team victory and tunes. And there were so many Reggie Bush jerseys, we could have summoned him in spirit.

Led by trumpeter/vocalist Gregory Davis and sax players Roger Lewis and Kevin Harris, the lineup also featured drummer Terence Higgins, guitarist Jake Eckert, trumpeter Efrem Towns, sousaphonist Julius McKee, and trombonist Revert Andrews.

The current DDBB tour celebrates the 25th anniversary of their debut album, My Feet Can’t Fail Me Now, recently remastered and available for sale. In 1977, the Dirty Dozen Social and Pleasure Club in New Orleans inadvertently created a phenomenon when they developed a house brass band. Since this unexpected foundation, the ensemble has continued their brass band traditions, spreading Deep South soul to audiences worldwide.

The soul-stirring music was impeccable, and the enthusiasm was catching. The DDBB was a well-oiled machine, capable of hitting all the right notes. However, it wasn’t just the perfection of their craft that impressed; it was their passion for performance. The boys loved to move and talk with the audience. The DDBB’s strong faith in brass and its jazz roots inspired the rest of us.

I didn’t earn any Mardi Gras beads Saturday night, and I didn’t wear a feathered mask to the show, but for one night, I felt like a Saints fan. I joined in a “Who dat!” or two, and danced to a triumphant rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” For a night, we were all transported to Bourbon Street. So when’s the next bus leave for New Orleans?

To see more of my Charleston City Paper articles, go to the website.

Satan Stole My Computer

Satan does exist. Now, let me tell you why.

Disclaimer: This is not a politically correct entry. So if you’re easily offended, go watch Oprah or something.

So my computer is sick. I’m not typing on my computer; I’m using my roommate’s. My computer is old. She’s close to retirement. She gets sleepy, and she just turns off without warning. This week, she’s been bad. It’s been worse since I’m freelancing full time. Ye old computer gets a lot of action nowadays. Over the course of a day, she has more hands on her than a stripper at 2 AM. So she’s in revolt. She’s turning off every fifteen minutes, and yesterday, I took her to the doctor.

The dude at CompuZone looked at my computer and said, “Yeah, I can run a diagnostic. Get her back to you in about five days.” Point blank, I said, “Are you insane? Five days? Why not five months? How about five DECADES, huh?” Like the disgruntled little child I occasionally can be, I stomped out, muttering inappropriate curse words on CompuZone’s front stoop, inciting raised eyebrows from the dry cleaning guy next door.

My next option? Call HP tech support. I hate talking to robot voices. By the end of the initial phone call, I’m screaming “Option 1! Option 2! Do you understand me you bleeping-blippity-blonker?” This is the error of tech support. The actual human beings don’t have a chance, because by the time we—the consumer—reach them—the techie nerds—we are so fiery hot with anger, we can barely speak. So I finally get on the phone with a human being. Here’s the part about why I know Satan does, in fact, exist.

I can’t understand the techie guy.

This is no fault of Jefferson’s. (Yeah, his name is Jefferson. Weird, right?) Jefferson is innocent. He just wants to help, but he’s also very far away in a foreign country with an accent that is probably considered barely there by his country’s standards. By my standards, I feel like I’m back in junior year of college Algebra. Remember? That semester when I had to TEACH a bunch of other kids MATH because our teacher was so FOREIGN, we couldn’t understand him. And we were PAYING TUITION for THAT? To have me—a Creative Writing major—teach a classroom MATH? Back to Jefferson, the poor guy can tell I’m frustrated. I’m cussing under my breath as he tells me they’re going to bill me a one-time charge of $49.99 (does the 99 really fool anyone? It’s fifty bucks) to fix my computer over the phone. I make him promise this is going to work, and then, I tell him that if it doesn’t work, he’s lucky he’s too far away for me to FIND.

We do the run around for about forty-five minutes. There’s a lot of him spelling things, because like I said, I can’t understand anything. Then, there are a lot of long pauses, because I can tell, Jefferson doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. We hang up, and he says my computer is fixed. That was yesterday.

Today, my computer is definitely NOT FIXED, JEFFERSON! I call Jefferson back. (His own personal curse that I know his name…) He takes remote control of my sick, old computer, and there is nothing weirder than watching my computer move on its own. This is the 2010 equivalent of Poltergeist, and I can just hear that little blond brat saying, “They’re heeeeeeeeeeeere.” This lasts two hours.

Did I mention I’m a freelancer? Time is money, and I might as well be burning dollar bills. Time moves along, and I’m stranded, watching a stranger open and close applications and web pages while coasting over a picture of my boyfriend and me on my desktop background. It could be weirder. Imagine what this Jefferson guy has seen—probably porn on some teenage dude’s laptop, maybe a swastika from a skinhead’s Mac, or worse, Hannah Montana.

About halfway through this marathon of tech support, my cell phone dies, and Jefferson is gone. It’s about here where I start crying. And it is here when I realize Satan exists, and it’s all because of HP’s tech support. Who else, but Satan, would devise such torture? Who else would force a bunch of angry, impatient Americans to call a foreign country, for help navigating a foreign planet—cyberspace—from none other than a foreign dude who might as well be speaking Tele-Tubby? Who else would make it so impossible to just get a straight answer? To get a quick fix?

There is additional evidence of Satan. There is the United States Postal Service. There are airports. There is the process of buying individual health insurance, and yes, there is Oprah. However, in the past twenty-four hours, I have come to realize that evil does exist, and I have faced it dead on. If you don’t believe me, download some random virus. Crash your computer, and then, call for help. No one will hear you. This, my friends, is what hell must be like. “Just say Option 3 for the pit of eternal despair…”

Daybreakers is GROSS

Have you seen DAYBREAKERS? AHHH! Gross. Gnarly. Pretty freakin’ sweet. And what’s up with the yellow eyes? And those dudes with the wings? AHHHH!

Oh, shoot, this was supposed to be an Avatar review.

Well, since I’m already on a roll…

I saw Daybreakers opening day, last Friday. I’d seen the trailers, so I knew I wanted to see the movie. I’m a vampire geek, I’ll admit it. (It’s true, okay. Wanna fight about it?) Ever since reading Interview with a Vampire as a little black-haired kid in Perrysburg, Ohio, I’ve been in love with the blood-suckers. That being said, I enjoy smart blood-sucker movies. I understand the dumb ones. I know why Twilight has such charisma. (It’s because of the jailbait, right?) I know why there are so many spin-offs of Dracula. (It’s because of the damn sexy casts of characters, right?) I guess I’m saying that in most vamp flicks, we watch ‘em for the pretty people—not necessarily for a thought-provoking plotline. In this broad-sweeping stereotype, Daybreakers is different. Daybreakers is smart, and when I left the theater, I was kind of freaked out.

By the year 2019, a plague will ravage the human race and turn most of us into vampires. There are positives. We’ll all have freaky yellow eyes. We’ll have cool fangs. We’ll all live forever, and I imagine we will cut way back on pollution. There are negatives. For one, we’ll all LIVE FOREVER, and since there are so few humans left, we will also run out of our food source, blood. This is the conflict at the center of Daybreakers. The blood is almost gone, so hematologist Edward Dalton (played by the ever melancholy Ethan Hawke) has to find a blood substitute.

The blood substitute medical trial scene is one of my favorites. (EWWWWWWWWWWWW!) I won’t give away the whole thing. I will say that this “trial” scene is a precursor for the total grossness of this flick. Not for the faint of heart, there is plenty of blood spatter in this movie. (Kind of looked like strawberry jelly.) But the epic MEDICAL TRIAL SCENE. “I feel better now,” followed by…I can’t give away the whole thing. But like I said, this scene is a precursor. Daybreakers is gross. The things that freaked me out the most were the sub-siders. These are vamps who’ve begun to starve. They’ve gone crazy, and in going crazy, they turn into these slimy, winged, inhuman creatures that, upon recollection of certain scenes, have to this day made me put down my sandwich and say, “Huh, I’m not hungry anymore.”

Back to the smarts of Daybreakers…Willem Dafoe (hard to not picture him prancing around in Boondock Saints) and Claudia Karvan (hot in that Catherine Keener sort of way) play humans searching for a vampire CURE. They convince Ethan Hawke to help them, and as we discover, Ethan is happy to help since he hates being a vampire anyway. So they run and they run, searching for the cure, hiding from the military (whose sole function is to hunt humans), and things happen and…

See, here’s the problem: I can’t really tell you anymore. I don’t want to be a spoiler. Going into it, I knew very little about Daybreakers. I knew Ethan Hawke was in it. I knew vampires were in it. I knew the cinematography (all navy and black) looked cool (and it WAS cool), but that was all I knew. So I don’t want to tell you much more. I will say that Daybreakers was a smart, scary, GROSS vampire movie. I will also say that in the vein of True Blood, Daybreakers equates could-happen scenarios into science fiction. In the television series True Blood, the vampires come out of hiding, and the show treats this coming out similarly to the Civil Right movement of the past—vampires getting unfair treatment from law enforcement, vampires not being allowed to vote, vampires being segregated, etc.

Daybreakers looks to the future, but it is easy to imagine this “vampire plague” as an actual plague somewhere down the line. Like the characters of Daybreakers, we will all freak out. There will be shortages. There will be violence and murder. We will kill each other to survive. In this parallel, Daybreakers makes you think. It’s scary, because you gotta realize, maybe we could get there someday. Maybe the plague won’t be vampire, but it will be something. So, I guess, see this movie. See it if you like vampires. See it if you like gore. See it if you want to witness what could happen to our society in a crisis. But don’t worry. We’ll be okay. At least, until 2019.

Dobie Back in Love with PR

Since quitting my full time job, I’ve gone back to my freelance roots. It’s where it all started—my passion for PR. Back in my Ohio days, I started my own PR company—Tree Town Promotions—and I repped only authors and artists from the Midwest. When I moved to South Carolina, I had to leave most of them behind. However, Michigan author Alan St. Jean has always stuck with me. I’ve launched five of his children’s books, and I hope to be a constant help and support for this talented and prolific Steelers fan. (Had to give a shout out.)

Anyway, I’m in the midst of sending review copies for Alan’s newest release, Alyssa and the Spider. Alyssa is a beautiful book with a beautiful story. I want it to win awards, and I want it to be SEEN. I’m doing my best to spread the word, so in the process, I thought I should share some of what I do to launch a new title. With this entry, I mean to help all the independent authors out there by demystifying public relations and giving you some learned tricks of the trade. To do so, I’m going to run through my review copy process. In other words, what do you send and HOW do you send it?

1) Preliminary email. First, I do my homework. I find the online reviewers who write the best reviews and have the most popular sites. I find the publishing industry magazines that need to see this book. Then, I email them. I introduce myself. I introduce the book. I see if they would like a review copy, and in certain cases, I see if they would like to interview the author. This gives them a heads-up. They will then be looking for the book in the mail. This starts the “hype”—gets the ball of interest rolling. Plus, it’s just nice to introduce yourself. It’s nice (and important) to build a relationship with the people in your industry.

2) The cover letter. You have to have this. It’s another step in the introductory process. It reminds the reviewer who you are and what you represent. It should have a reiteration of your email introduction, a synopsis of your book, and a request: Why are you sending this book? What do you want from the reviewer? A simple line works: “I am honored to have my title considered, and I look forward to reading your review.” Be sure to have all your contact info on your cover letter, too, so that it is easy for the reviewer to get in touch with you if he/she has questions or concerns.

3) A promotional document. The promo doc can be only a page long. It needs to include title, author, publisher, and ISBN details. It should have a synopsis, an author bio, and imagery. This is your opportunity to do “pretty” stuff. Be sure to use cover art. Use interior art, as well, if you’re dealing with a picture book. WOW the reviewer with all you and your book have to offer. A promotional document is like an image-based representation of your marketing copy. It should sell your title with little more than a glance, so make it attractive and concise.

4) The BOOK. (Duh.)

5) Something fun. Call me a dork, but I like including something fun with review copies. For example, for Alan’s Alyssa and the Spider, I found these funny, stretchable spider toys. I put a little toy with each review copy. Twenty spiders cost me four bucks. Stay on the cheap side, but have FUN. The spider toys make Alan’s book stand out. Sure, the things will probably get tossed by some reviewers. The hope is that other reviewers will get a kick out of the stretchy spiders and keep ‘em on their desks. That way, the spider will be a reminder of Alan and Alyssa. That way, the reviewer will be more likely to remember Alyssa and write a review. It’s the fun, creative touches that set you apart—as a person and as an author. Never forget to have fun, really, because isn’t that why we’re here anyway?

6) The envelope. Anyone can stuff a book into a big manila envelope and send it off. Going back to the “Something fun” idea, I like to make individualized labels. I don’t mean individualized to each reviewer, but I do mean individualized to your book. What I suggest is buying sheets of big mailing labels to print yourself. Then, throw cover art onto ‘em. Include the book title, author name, and if there’s space, your website address. Not only will your package jump off a reviewer’s desk, but hey, maybe the post man will end up buying a copy of your book because he saw your envelope in the mail!

QUICK TIP: Be sure to set up a Google Alert for the title of your book and for you. Reviewers don’t always have time to let you know they reviewed your book. With Google Alerts, you get automatic notifications when your name or your book title pops up on the web. This will keep you in the loop and let you know when your amazing book is getting some press. Check out http://www.google.com/alerts for sign up details.

Hope these tidbits were helpful! As for me, I’m freelancing, and I’ve fallen back in love with public relations. It’s good to be back. Happy book promotion, everyone!